


Peter Enchanted

by meverri



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: (the major character death is mag), Alternate Universe - Ella Enchanted Fusion, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Compelling Voice, Sexual Content, that's right bitches i said ella enchanted au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24012769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meverri/pseuds/meverri
Summary: Every Brahman child is outfitted with a microchip that makes them obedient. For Peter Nureyev, this is a problem.
Relationships: Mag & Peter Nureyev, Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1731829
Comments: 36
Kudos: 140
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Peter Enchanted

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! You can find me on tumblr @[hundred-separate-lines](https://hundred-separate-lines.tumblr.com/). Also, thanks to @[grasslandgirl](https://grasslandgirl.tumblr.com/) for listening to me ramble about this AU at 2 am.
> 
> EDIT 12/20/2020: RAB (@[jitterbug-juno](https://jitterbug-juno.tumblr.com/)) MADE ART FOR THIS AAAAAAAAA RAB ILY AND IT'S BEAUTIFUL SO IT'S IN THE FIC NOW THANK YOU

Peter Nureyev is 36 years old when he steps into the office of Juno Steel, Private Eye. Rex Glass is supposed to be 32; Rex Glass has existed for about three years. He is a comfortable fit, by now, all flirty lines and inflection and throwing sex at the wall to see what sticks. He is pleasantly charming, a bit of an airhead, and passionate about ancient relics. He leaves Rita swooning by the front desk when he knocks on Juno’s door.

Juno, as it turns out, is in the middle of climbing out of the window. To Rex Glass, this is odd but charming. To Peter Nureyev, it is an instant shot of adrenaline, straight to the heart; it is the most gorgeous lady he has ever seen bumbling through an explanation of why he might, in fact, be trying to escape before he (God forbid) has to work with another person; it is a spark that lights a flame that will follow him for the next two years, building to a forest fire that leaves everything destroyed but fertile soil, ready for new growth. In the moment, though, Rex Glass is all that matters.

At least, Rex Glass matters until Juno leads him out the door, beckoning with a grumbled “Follow me.”

Peter Nureyev tries not to flinch at the order. Something uncomfortable tugs at the back of his mind, propelling his limbs forward without input. He follows Juno tensely. He does not resist, and he does not visibly react. He simply obeys, without a choice.

Juno Steel is not the only one who works best alone.

  


* * *

  


He doesn’t remember the first time it became relevant, exactly. There’s no way he could; he would have been far too young to remember the surgery, or the recovery, or the ways in which he changed. He only remembers a childhood spent on the streets, scrambling away every time an adult shouted at him to go away when they caught him picking pockets. He learns to run before they can tell him to stay there, or to wait, or to turn himself in, or to die, you shitty little kid, and stop wasting everyone’s resources.

He does remember running his hand along the raised scar tissue hidden just behind his hairline, rubbing at it over and over in an attempt to calm down after a particularly scary encounter. He doesn’t understand that it’s a scar at all; it’s simply part of his body, the way a finger or a freckle would be. He certainly doesn’t know how many Brahman citizens carry the same scar. He doesn’t know that every Brahman child is forced to obey.

He remembers huddling outside in the rain, begging anyone to let him in. He remembers stealing food from garbage cans. He remembers hiding from the police. He remembers a life of danger and a life of loneliness.

Before he becomes Peter Nureyev, he is no one. And after he becomes Peter Nureyev - _after_ -

Well. He doesn’t like to think about that.

  


* * *

  


Juno Steel is grumpy, but he’s incredibly skilled. He narrows his eyes when Peter insists on opening the door - a necessary precaution, but still too attention-grabbing. He questions Cassandra with cool familiarity while Peter coos over the mask, still covered in Croesus Kanagawa’s blood. 

Luckily for him, Juno isn’t terribly bossy. That is, he’s bossy in the short, snappy way that comes from a life of constant annoyance, of a need to get to the bottom of a case _quick,_ and that’s the sort of person that Peter can understand. He knows that itching desire to learn everything about a room, to solve a puzzle before anyone else can, to be the first to know every fact of a case. It’s funny how easy it is to pose as an investigator after a lifetime of theft; the same eyes that can case a room in ten seconds are also very, very adept at finding clues. Peter can handle a Juno who whispers “Let’s go” and “Hurry up” every other breath, but who never commands him to look in one place or walk to another. The familiar zip of obedience that runs through his body is so much more pleasant when it’s something he would have done anyway; he and Juno skillfully escape the horrible death chair that Cecil straps them to, then confront Cassandra, and when Juno shouts “Now!” Peter rushes for her blaster without needing that tug on his body at all. They make a good team, he thinks, watching Juno stand up to Min as if she isn’t a full foot taller and surrounded by guards. He admires Juno. He may even like him.

That’s why he asks if Juno will grant him a warm place to stay. That’s why he accepts the whiskey (disgusting) Juno pours without comment, basking in his presence. That’s why he kisses Juno as deeply as he does, even as he reaches into Juno’s pockets for the key to his safe.

“Rex,” Juno mutters, and Peter’s heart melts. “Has anyone ever told you… that you’re under arrest?”

The click of the handcuffs is like cold water over Peter’s foggy head. He flirts a bit more, but it’s careful, now; he doesn’t want Juno doing something silly like ordering him to comply with the police. He doesn’t want to have to kill Juno, after all; he’s done it before, with guards who ordered him to stay put or clients who ordered him to leave without pay or -

Well. He’s done it before. It’s the only way to escape an order. Peter would know.

Instead, he waits quietly while Juno monologues. His hand shakes a little as he writes the note behind his back, but that’s to be expected. After all, it isn’t every day that he gives up his name to a near-stranger in the hopes that he’ll have someone to run away with. He tucks the note into the couch cushions as he passes and heads into the dark, rainy night.

By the time Juno next has eyes on the police car, Peter is long gone.

  


* * *

  


He is six years old when he reaches his fingers into the pockets of a young man - maybe in his mid-twenties, maybe a little older - with dark hair and kind, sharp eyes. The man turns the moment the Brahman boy reaches for his wallet, smiles, and asks if he would like a meal. The boy almost turns to run, but something about the man strikes him as trustworthy, and he’s so _hungry._

“Come on,” says the man, and then he stops. Frowns. Turned back to the boy, and says, “You don’t have to, of course. I’d like to buy you something to eat. You don’t have to come.”

The boy follows him because he doesn’t have a better way to get lunch, and because he hasn’t eaten a warm meal for as long as he can remember. He’s six and near-feral, a child who has never once been allowed the comforts of a good home and decent food, of love from someone who wants nothing more than his safety. He doesn’t trust the man, but then, he’s never trusted anyone.

“I’m Mag,” says the man as they sit down to eat. “What’s your name?”

The boy shrugs. The restaurant is fancier than he expected, full of middle-class business people taking a late lunch. He watches as a tall, elegant woman sits down at the table behind Mag. She notices him staring and turns up her nose.

“Okay,” says Mag. “Do you not have one, or do you just not want me to know?”

The boy swallows. “I don’t have one,” he says.

“All right,” says Mag. “Would you like one?”

That’s a bit much for the boy to take in. He shakes his head. Mag smiles.

“That’s okay,” he says. “Here, order whatever you like.”

The boy points to a dish at random. Mag types the order into a small screen embedded in the table. Within a few minutes, an automated cart rolls up to the table, covered with more food than the boy has ever seen in his life.

“Here,” says Mag. He set a few plates in front of the boy. “You can eat whatever you want. If you get hungry, I can order more.”

The boy watches Mag warily, but Mag just begins eating his own food. The smell of the plates in front of the boy is too much; within a minute, he gives up watching Mag and begins wolfing down hot, filling, wonderful food.

“You know,” says Mag, after the boy moves onto his second plate. “I’m looking for my friend’s son. He looked a lot like you, and he’d be about your age. Do you know anyone like that?”

The boy shrugs. He doesn’t know any other children, not really. Sometimes, one of the older ones will share some food with him if they notice that he hasn’t eaten yet. Sometimes they’ll ask if he has anywhere to go, and he’ll say no, and they’ll nod and offer him a place by their fire.

“It could be you,” says the man, keeping his voice light as air. “I’m supposed to find him and bring him home. He needs someone to take care of him.”

The boy glances up at Mag, who is gazing at him gently. He swallows. “I’ve never met my father.”

“Do you have parents?” Mag asks.

The boy shakes his head.

“Siblings?”

The boy takes another huge bite of the dish - something with rice, something spicy and delicious and oh, the best thing he’s ever eaten - and shakes his head again.

“It could be you,” says Mag.

The boy swallows again. “What, uh, what was his name?”

Mag smiles. “It was Nureyev,” he says. “His name was Peter Nureyev. Is that you?”

That’s the end of life as a lonely child on the Brahman streets and the beginning of Peter-and-Mag. Peter follows him home that night and sleeps in a real bed, in a real house. In the morning, Mag makes pancakes. He heats up leftovers from the restaurant for lunch and for dinner. Peter sleeps, for the second night in his life, with a full belly. Then the third. Then the fourth.

It’s the start of a life lived with someone else. It’s the start of jumping from house to apartment to hotel, but never living without a roof over his head. It’s the start of a family. 

It’s the start of Peter Nureyev.

  


* * *

  


Peter doesn’t anticipate running into Juno when he tries to obtain the Martian telepathy pill. He spends some time researching Juno after that, just to be safe; he doesn’t want to run into the lady without warning again.

As it turns out, most of his research is irrelevant. Valles Vicky calls and informs him that Juno is willing to help extract the Egg of Purus, so Peter waits for an hour in Juno’s darkened apartment before Juno’s pretty face makes its way back into his life.

“Hello, Juno,” he says, and Juno rolls his eyes.

As it turns out, being Peter Nureyev again is a bit uncomfortable, like trying to wear a pair of old, slightly-too-small shoes. Duke Rose is better, easier to breathe in, a brand-new glittering pair of stilettos that fit just right. Juno takes to Dahlia like oil to water, but no heist is perfect, anyway. Peter hates that Juno is put up as collateral, in their stupid game of Rangian street poker, but it’s not as though he can tell Engstrom that all he needs to do to ensure Peter tells the truth is to command him to do so.

Their fight in the bathroom is awful. Juno is all fire and spit, anger flowing to the surface of his usual gruffness like magma coming up through the cracks in the ground, and Peter nearly regrets giving Juno his name. Nearly. Even without Juno truly understanding what he’s been given, Peter can’t quite regret trusting him, not with those dark eyes glittering with understanding as he confesses that his name ties him to crimes he doesn’t - _can’t_ \- think about. It hurts to watch Juno bleed when he reads Valencia’s mind, and it hurts to see him shoving Peter out of their hotel room in the middle of the night, worried about another attack, and it hurts to be stuck on the other side of a door while the train compartment with Juno in it fills with poison gas.

Oh, if only he’d known, then.

In the end, though, they get their hands on the egg and make it off the Utgard Express with only minor injuries. Juno keeps one hand on Peter’s forearm for a bit longer than is strictly necessary, and Peter tries to tell himself that it is only Juno steadying himself on the shifting sands, nothing more. His heart stubbornly ignores him.

Miasma’s sudden appearance is unfortunate, if only because it means that Juno has to watch, horrified, as Peter obeys every order and quietly gets in the back of her car. Juno’s hand is warm in his, though, so that’s something of a comfort.

_Just trust me, Juno,_ Peter thinks as the car brings them to the entrance to an ancient Martian tomb. It’s a command that’s useless; Juno is stubborn and wild, as far from Peter’s synthetic obedience as possible, and Peter loves it about him. Still, he repeats the thought like a mantra: Just trust me, and we’ll get out of this.

All he has left is to hope he’s right.

  


* * *

  


Mag brings him home and cleans him up. Mag makes sure he’s fed each day, always reminding him to eat his vegetables. Mag gives him a home, and a family, and a name, and a memory of the father he misses more than anything.

(And then, eventually, a father he loves more than anything.)

Peter doesn’t notice that Mag never orders him to do anything. He politely requests each morning that Peter accompany him for training. He asks Peter to go to bed at a reasonable hour. He lets it be known, generally, that it would be nice if someone would vacuum in the living room. They spend days sparring and picking pockets and generally causing trouble, and Mag teaches Peter every trick in the book.

There’s a small community of homeless children nearby, most of whom are cared for by Mag’s extended network of friends. Some bounce from home to home, never quite settling anywhere; others stay in tents under a nearby bridge, which is a known blind spot for New Kinshasa’s lasers. The lasers technically aren’t supposed to target children anyway, but no one trusts the Guardian Angel System to follow its own rules, so Mag and his friends spend a lot of their time ensuring that every homeless child in the city has a safe place to stay every night. It’s a point of pride for Mag, which means that he spends his days stealing from the New Kinshasan elite whenever they deign to set foot on Brahma’s surface.

One afternoon, Mag brings Peter with him to a popular tourist trap. It’s an incredible waterfall that plunges down into a deep chasm, which glows faintly blue with phosphorescent algae. Every couple of years, someone slips and falls in, which adds to the attraction; the danger is a large part of its appeal to wealthy young heirs who crave a thrill, and many of them dare each other closer and closer to the edge, competing to see who can come the closest. In doing so, they leave bags and wallets unattended behind them, fearing the risk of losing loose objects to the yawning gap. It’s the perfect place for Peter to flex his new skills.

Peter hides in the branches of a nearby tree and watches as a group of teenagers, clad in New Kinshasan finery, wander drunkenly toward the chasm. Laughing, they each sling heavy packs off of their shoulders and dump them unceremoniously next to the only notable landmark in the vicinity: the very tree in which Peter is hiding. 

As they wander closer to the chasm, Peter gently lets himself down from the tree’s branches. He’s careful to drop as quietly as he could, landing on light feet and steadying himself with outstretched arms. One of the teenagers laughs at another, who refuses to go anywhere near the opening, and another focuses entirely on sneaking up behind the first. Peter kneels and reaches into the nearest bag.

Mag has taught him to work quickly and efficiently. He finds a wallet almost immediately and extracts a wad of cash, careful to leave everything else undisturbed. He does the same with the next bag, and the same with the third, then slips the wad of cash into a small pocket on the side of his pants. He’s preparing to take a step back when he hears the scream.

At first, he thinks it was just the one who had snuck up on the other succeeding in their trick. When he turns to look, though, one of the teenagers has vanished. There’s another scream, and Peter’s gaze focuses on a pair of shaking hands clutching at the jagged rocks at the entrance to the cave.

Without thinking, Peter takes a step forward. He knows the area around the chasm; he can step more lightly than these teenagers, and he’s strong; if he can get there in time, he can help pull them out.

A shout from the treeline behind him forces him to freeze: “Pete, stop!”

The two teenagers who are still standing turn to see Peter, frozen to the spot below the tree. One of them is crying; the other screams “Help!”

With that, Peter’s finally able to move again, but only toward the chasm. He takes another two steps forward before Mag’s voice rings out again, yelling for him to “Run back home, Pete, and don’t stop for anyone except me!”

So he does.

He hears the scream from behind him as he runs, the last outburst of a person who’s grown too tired to hold on any longer. There are more screams as the other two teenagers realize what’s happened, but Peter can’t stop to help. He runs past police officers and citizens and buildings and cars, rushing but not really taking in the world around him until he stops, breathless, in the middle of his living room.

It takes him a moment to regain his bearings. The entire run is a blur, as though his only thought, his only action, had been to get home as quickly as possible. He gasps for air, then reaches for his side when it twinges painfully. He fightst down the panic that’s bubbling up in his throat.

Mag returns within a few minutes. He scoops Peter off the floor and holds him tightly in his arms, wrapping one hand around the back of Peter’s head as though to protect him.

“Oh, thank God,” he says. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

“What was that?” Peter asks, shaking.

“I’m sorry,” says Mag. “I’m sorry. I told myself I’d never order you to do anything, and I did it anyway. I just wanted you to be safe.”

Peter starts to cry. “I don’t understand,” he sobs. The screams of the teenagers still echo in his ears.

“It’s okay,” mutters Mag. “It’s okay. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

Peter nods into Mag’s shoulder. “Okay.”

“As long as you’re safe,” Mag gasps. “As long as you’re safe.”

  


* * *

  


The tomb is awful.

First, there are the cards. Miasma orders Peter to flip them, again and again, with no way to know how Juno is doing. He goes along without protest, even if the constant tingle of her commands is becoming less pleasant by the hour. He’s exhausted by the time her assistant finally shoves him into another room, this one cold and horrible but at least containing one Juno Steel.

“Juno,” he gasps, and Juno groans.

His face is covered in blood. Peter kneels beside him and rips a piece of fabric off the bottom of his shirt, then gently dabs at the still-wet blood on Juno’s cheek. He wishes he had some water. He wishes they were anywhere but here.

Juno groans again, but he seems to recognize Peter. He opens his eyes gingerly and gives Peter a once over.

“You okay?” he asks.

Peter shushes him gently. “I’m fine, darling,” he says. “I’m much more concerned about you.”

“I’m fine,” Juno says. “Just need a bit of a breather.”

“Oh, Juno,” says Peter. “I’m sorry.”

“Not exactly your fault, Nureyev,” says Juno.

“I should have stopped,” says Peter. “I should have given you a break. You shouldn’t have to… I don’t know. _Bleed_ for me.”

Juno shakes his head. “It’s Miasma,” he says, staring Peter dead in the eyes. “It’s not your fault. You can’t blame yourself for her weird supervillain scheme.”

_Watch me,_ Peter thinks, but he just smiles sadly back at Juno and nods. “All right,” he says. “The fact remains that I’m worried about you. Why don’t you lay down and get some rest?”

“Think I might take you up on that, actually,” says Juno. He shifts until he’s reclining on one arm, wincing as he goes. Peter busies himself with gathering the threadbare blankets that Miasma’s goons have left on the floor and bringing them to Juno’s side while Juno gingerly lays down. He’s prepared to leave Juno alone when all of a sudden, from behind him, Juno mutters something.

“Hmm?” Peter asks, turning to look.

Juno looks at him with those big, sad eyes, and Peter is lost. He looks so tired, like this. Like the entire world rests on top of those broad, wonderful shoulders, and for once, Peter thinks maybe it does, and maybe Juno won’t be able to keep carrying it forever. So when Juno mutters “Stay with me?” as though he’s ashamed to even ask, Peter’s heart breaks.

“Of course,” he says, and he curls up beside Juno. He takes one of Juno’s hands in his own - it’s horribly cold in this tomb, after all - and presses it to his chest, as though he could push Juno’s hands past his ribcage and let him scoop out his heart. It wouldn’t make a difference, anyway. Juno already holds Peter’s heart in those scarred hands, and Peter trusts him not to break it. In return, Peter watches over Juno until he’s asleep, keeping an ear out for the guards or any ancient Martian ghosts that decide to break their peace.

The night isn’t nearly long enough. They’re dragged away before Peter ever really drifts off, Juno is barely even awake enough to mouth off to the guards; he blinks blearily at the one who pulls him away from Peter, as though he can’t quite comprehend that they’re being separated. 

Day two of card flipping is horrible. He can only hear bits and pieces of Juno’s voice, and only when it overlaps with Miasma’s commands. One time, he hears Juno panting for breath while she speaks, his voice catching with exhaustion or pain, and Peter decides he’s had enough.

“Thief, flip a card,” says Miasma.

It takes effort to resist a direct command, but Peter tries not to let it show with his voice. His hands shake when he says “Let’s give Juno a rest, shall we?”

“Thief,” Miasma snaps, “a card. _Now._ ”

Peter’s arms have begun to shake with the effort that it takes to resist a command, but he keeps holding out. “Juno, darling, are you all right?” he asks.

He doesn’t get an answer. Before he can take another breath, the straps on the awful torture chair into which he’s been strapped - funny, how often that’s happening now - go live with electricity. Peter tries to hold back a scream, but judging by the way his throat tenses, he thinks he’s probably unsuccessful.

When the electricity stops, Peter just barely catches the end of Juno screaming at Miasma to stop it. He lets his body hang, hoping desperately that, if nothing else, the electricity has finally disabled the microchip that has commanded every second of his life. The world swims around him, and he thinks _Please, please, don’t make me hurt Juno._

“Thief,” says Miasma, “turn over a card.”

So he does.

  


* * *

  


“Why don’t you order me around?” Peter asks, barely ten years old and still learning how the world works.

“I don’t think it’s fair when you can’t refuse,” says Mags. “I’d only ever do it for your own safety. You know that.”

Peter frowns. “Should I be able to refuse?”

The shadow of anger that passes over Mag’s face then would have scared any other child. As it is, Peter knows that Mag means him no harm; he’s familiar with that righteous anger, and it’s always been directed away from Peter and up towards the city that floats above them at all times. 

“It’s a chip,” Mag explains. He runs a finger along his own hairline. “They only started it a few years ago. It’s inserted into the frontal lobe, I think. It takes verbal commands and forces obedience. It’s part of their promise never to target children with the lasers. I guess they thought if children were obedient, they wouldn’t have to kill them.”

Peter runs his thumb along the same spot, prodding at the raised bit of scar tissue that’s been there as long as he can remember. His heart falls into his stomach. There’s something _wrong_ about it, now that Peter knows it’s a New Kinshasan tool of control. He suddenly and desperately wants it gone.

“They take it out when you turn eighteen,” Mag assures him. “You just have to go register your face and DNA with the government to get it removed. It’s a tricky process, and I haven’t been able to find anyone else who can remove them, yet. I’m working on it. I promise we’ll get it out as soon as we can do it safely.”

“And then I can disobey?” Peter asks.

Mag nods, then rises from his couch and makes his way over to Peter. He crouches, bringing himself to Peter’s eye level, and places a hand on his shoulder.

“They should never have done this to you,” Mag says. “It’s wrong. They should never have done it to any child. That’s why, if you’re ever caught, you run. If you let them catch you, they can tell you to do anything.”

That command, hidden as it is, zips its way down Peter’s spine the same way every command has. He says nothing.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” says Mag. “Nobody ever said life was fair. But, for what it’s worth, I’m trying to make it fairer.”

  


* * *

  


“Look into my head,” Peter suggests, and Juno nods.

Juno is fading. Peter can feel it. He’s fading, too, succumbing to pain and obedience and hunger that reminds him of his early childhood, but he doesn’t spend most of his time bleeding out of his face, so he decides Juno is the one who needs help most. Escape becomes, more than anything, a way to save Juno - if either of them deserves a rescue, it’s him. So when Miasma forces Juno to look inside Peter’s head and Juno comes back bloody and shaking, Peter hates himself for seeing an opportunity.

Then again, it’s an opportunity, and Peter’s not one to take those lightly.

Juno closes his eyes. Peter grabs Juno’s hand and intertwines their fingers. Faintly, Juno smiles.

The blood begins to flow down his face in earnest a couple of minutes after he closes his eyes. A minute after that, he starts shaking. Another minute, and he starts screaming. Peter flinches, but his voice is firm when he calls for the guard. The one by the door rushes in, unarmed, and it’s far too easy to subdue them. They’re unconscious in seconds.

“Okay, Juno,” says Peter. “We need to go. Can you stand?”

Juno just groans, gripping the front of Peter’s shirt like a lifeline. Peter tries to get Juno to his feet, but it’s no use; Juno can barely sit, much less stand or walk. Peter glances back at the door, keeping count in his head - how many seconds until they’re caught?

“I’m sorry, Juno,” he says. “I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

Juno starts to speak, groaning out a soft “ _Don’t -_ ” which Peter silences by placing his hand firmly over Juno’s mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, but he cannot let Juno command him to stay. Juno moans again, insensate. Peter lets him go and stands.

_I’ll come back,_ he thinks, and makes his way silently out of their cell.

  


* * *

  


Peter is a good thief by age ten and a great one by age twelve. He and Mag play the father-and-son bit well, especially as Mag gets older. Mag teaches Peter how to lie and how to skirt around the outside of an order, how to obey without doing what the authorities really want him to do. 

He also spends hours training Peter in resisting his chip. He’s never quite able to resist it entirely - at some point, his mind gives out, and Mag’s order is the only thing left, blazing through his mind and body until he touches his nose or stands up or whatever Mag is ordering him to do - but he can delay his reaction, press his advantage until he can subdue whoever gave him the order in the first place.

It’s a funny thing, learning to disobey. Even disobeying for a few seconds leaves him winded in a way that running from a crime scene can barely scratch. Mag never pushes him to continue when he’s done. Instead, Peter pushes himself, clawing at the walls of the cage around his mind until his control is bloody and raw and he lays, shaking, on the couch. Mag grabs him a blanket and wraps him in it and sits beside him until, still shaking, he can be helped to his bed. Then, the next night, they do it again, over and over until Peter can resist for minutes at a time.

It’s worth it in the end. In the middle of a risky home invasion, Peter finds himself cornered by one of the household staff. They order him to stay put while they call the police. He manages to resist just long enough to make it out of the room, and when Mag sees him struggling to walk away, he orders Peter to escape. They make it just in time and laugh about it when they get home. Mag even lets Peter try his first wine, though even the small sip Peter takes is bitter enough to convince him not to try it again. Mag just laughs at Peter’s disgusted expression and pours the rest of it into his own glass.

“I’m proud of you, Pete,” he says, taking a sip. “You did exactly the right thing. First rule of thieving: never get caught without an escape.”

He flings an arm over Peter’s shoulders and pulls him to his side. Peter blushes from the attention, but he wraps his arms around Mag and hugs him tightly. “I’m just glad I could get away,” he mutters.

“Of course you got away,” Mag replies. “You’re the best god damn thief on this planet. Well, besides me, of course.” He takes a second to meet Peter’s eye and winks. “You know, your father would be very proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mag,” says Peter, but internally, he’s just glad he’s made Mag proud.

  


* * *

  


Peter returns, of course. He comes back for Juno. Miasma turns into some horrible tentacle thing and starts the countdown on the egg, and it’s horrible, and he’s terrified, but at least Juno isn’t alone. That is, until Juno reaches into Miasma’s mind and finds nothing that can help them, nothing that can stop the bomb from going off.

“I have an idea!” Juno yells. “Quick, go through that door! I’m right behind you!”

The obedience is automatic. Peter sprints, his mind full of nothing but panic. He doesn’t realize that Juno isn’t right behind him until the door slides closed with a hydraulic hiss.

Peter turns, horrified, and begins to pound on the door. “Juno? Juno, open this door!”

“Sorry, Nureyev,” says Juno, and for a horrible minute Peter wishes that Juno had this chip, not him. Juno’s wonderful stubbornness, his unfailing ability to make the right choice - Peter would take it all away, right now, to pull this noble fool out of that room and run until all of Mars is just a twinkling dot in the sky. He would let a thousand people die - let a planet die - to keep Juno safe. 

But he can’t. All he can do is rest his forehead against the door as Juno tells him that Peter might be the best thing that ever happened to him, and it’s all too much. He listens as Juno says goodbye, and as the bomb goes off, and as Miasma screams, and he trembles against that cool metal until something breaks and it slides open.

Juno is on the ground, but he’s moving. Peter can see it from the doorway. He stands and rushes to Juno’s side, stroking one hand along the side of Juno’s bloody face and holding Juno’s hand in the other.

“Juno,” he says. “You’re… alive. How could you be?”

Miasma is gone. The egg has hatched. Juno explains, breathlessly, that it only destroyed Martian DNA, that it left behind every other animal on the Martian surface.

It’s awful, hearing Juno talk about Martian suicide like it’s something he understands. Like it’s a choice he, too, would make. Peter tries to ignore the fact that it’s a choice that Juno has made, in the last few minutes, and that only a quirk of fate has given him a chance to keep on living. Instead of thinking about it, he leans down and kisses Juno, so relieved he can hardly breathe.

He drags Juno to a doctor in Hyperion, even though Olympus Mons is closer, because Juno asks him to - asks, not tells. He brings Juno to a hotel after, when they’re both still covered in bandages and dirt, and lays beside him on the bed. He can see the hesitation in Juno, and so he asks - “Are you certain you want to leave Mars?”

“Yeah,” says Juno. “I said that, didn’t I?”

Peter presses, but not too hard. Then he presses Juno down into the mattress, but not too hard, because they’re both still bruised and weak from days and days of torture. He runs his hands gently over Juno’s body, worships him, kisses every scar with the lightest touch possible, and then does it all again until Juno squirms under him.

“Nureyev,” he huffs, so Peter comes back up to kiss him.

“Yes?”

Juno looks at him, pupil blown wide (and oh, bad thought, that it’s Peter’s fault that there’s only one pupil left, so he tucks it away and focuses on the warm brown of Juno’s iris instead), and says, “Babe, I need you to fuck me already.”

Peter laughs. “Impatient, are we?”

“Shut up,” grumbles Juno, and Peter’s happy to obey if it means bringing his mouth down to Juno’s neck, his chest, his stomach, his pelvis, until Juno is gasping again.

“Please,” he says. “Nureyev, please.”

So Peter takes Juno in his arms and makes love to him, slowly, gently, with all the love he can possibly convey with his body. Juno’s face is heavenly; the sounds coming out of his mouth are the best things Peter has ever heard. When Juno comes, he gasps Peter’s name, and Peter follows him over the edge. It’s sweet, and peaceful, and Peter never wants it to end.

He cleans them both up afterwards with a washcloth pilfered from the bathroom. Then he tucks Juno into the covers and slides in beside him. He turns to face Juno, who’s eye has drifted shut, and tucks himself in close.

“You know, Juno,” he says sleepily, “call me a fool, but I think I may have fallen in love with you.”

“If you’re a fool, that makes two of us,” says Juno, chuckling. Peter smiles, and the world fades away.

Something rustles in the night, waking him. Peter knows before he’s fully awake that Juno is leaving. It makes sense; Peter has felt the shift ever since that door slid open, ever since Juno truly had the chance to consider his own survival and the many, many ways that Peter let him get hurt while they were in Miasma’s clutches. Perhaps this is just a mirror of Juno’s abandonment all those days ago, when Peter left to try and get them both out. Maybe this is Juno’s way of saying that one night cannot undo all of those harms.

It still hurts to hear the door close. Peter stays in that bed for hours, his hand resting in the warm spot left by Juno’s chest until it has faded to the same cool, ambient temperature as the rest of the room. Then he buries his face in Juno’s pillow, but it only barely smells like Juno; it smells more like cheap hotel shampoo, like artificial roses, like this place where they have been allowed happiness, but only for a little while. Peter wants to break something. Instead, he gets out of bed and slowly gets dressed.

The Martian sunrise is blue. Peter watches it from the hotel window. Then he climbs out, bypassing the front desk. Let them bill Juno’s office; Peter has paid enough for his stay. 

He catches the first shuttle off of Mars and resolves never to return.

  


* * *

  


When Peter is fourteen, he and Mag decide to rob the home of a wealthy senator who has spent years fighting to expand the Guardian Angel System across the Outer Rim. Mag applies for a job as a live-in tutor for the senator’s son, who is around Peter’s age and, by all accounts, a very lonely child. Part of his application emphasizes that Peter would be available as a companion for the boy; the senator hires them immediately and invites them to live in his summer home on the coast of one of Brahma’s seas. They pack up their things and abandon one in a series of cheap apartments to catch a shuttle to the coast.

Peter spends most of that summer alone. Mag has been tasked with catching the boy up on reading; apparently, he’s recently received a dyslexia diagnosis, and his father is hoping to re-enroll him in one of New Kinshasa’s prestigious schools for the next year with some help from Mag and some new accommodations. This means that Mag is holed up with the boy every day for as much as twelve hours. They give Peter access to the grounds and the massive library, so he spends every day reading, which is easier than spending his time stealing or exploring the giant mansion in search of weaknesses to exploit.

About halfway through the summer, Peter is in the midst of reading a particularly interesting book on ancient Earth artifacts when he’s interrupted by a gentle cough.

“You’re James, right?”

Peter, whose alias for that summer is James Wright, glances over the top of his book. “Yes?”

“I’m Elliott,” says the boy. He’s broad-shouldered, with light red hair and blue eyes and freckles covering every bare inch of skin. Peter resolutely ignores his heart’s sudden need to jump out of his chest.

“I know,” Peter replies. “My father is tutoring you for the summer.”

“Yeah,” says Elliott. “Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to play chess?”

Peter frowns. “I don’t know how,” he says. “Don’t you have class?”

“Nah. It’s such a nice day outside, I asked Clarence if I could have the day off.”

Clarence is Mag’s alias for the summer. Peter sets his book down on the table beside him, careful to slip his bookmark between its open pages. “I still don’t know how to play,” he points out.

“It’s okay,” Elliott says with a smile. “I’ll teach you. C’mon.”

That afternoon burns bright in Peter’s memory for years. It’s full of golden light that reflects off of Elliott’s near-translucent eyelashes and the kind of nervous laughter that makes Peter’s heart sing. Peter spends a lot more time staring at those eyelashes than learning how to play chess, though he eventually learns the basic rules and even beats Elliott once or twice. They spend hours together each day after that, playing chess and riding horses and generally behaving like wealthy, carefree teenagers. When the summer ends and Mag sneaks into the senator’s office to steal his bank information, Peter steals a wallet-sized photo of Elliott. Sometime in the months afterward, between apartments and heists and a thousand other things, the picture vanishes. In time, the memory of Elliott’s face, of the exact texture of his hair, of the timbre of voice, does too.

Elliott gives him a kiss goodbye on his last day. Peter treasures it in his memory forever.

  


* * *

  


The months after Peter left Mars are a blur. He takes on four major jobs and nails every one of them. He creates two new personas and brings back six others. He tries a new drug and decides it isn't worth the dizziness. He lets his hair grow to his chin and lets it fall from its loose styles for a seduction. He abandons the seduction. He drinks eight bottles of wine in a week and then stops drinking entirely. He steals a gown that fits him like liquid silver, wears it once, and burns it on a cold night on an Outer Rim planet with a name he can't pronounce. He wakes up from nightmares to find his bed empty. He does not cry.

He tries to ignore any news from Mars, but it's hard to ignore Buddy’s story about a wayward traveler she had met after Jet rescued him from the desert.

“He had this horrible robotic eye,” she says. “He called it a THEIA Spectrum. He said it was a gift from his employer. It had this nasty habit of taking over his mind and forcing him to commit violence against his will, and of almost killing him in the process. Luckily, Hanataba was able to remove it. I heard there was some nastiness in Oldtown, too. Apparently, Juno’s old employer was attempting to give a THEIA to everyone in the city. It completely destroyed the area.”

“Oh?” Peter asks, straining to keep his voice casual.

“Yes. It was rather awful,” she says. “But, you know, Juno was lovely. We offered him employment, but he turned it down. I believe he had unfinished business in Hyperion.”

“That’s a shame,” says Peter. “He sounds very talented.”

“He is,” says Buddy, “but that’s not why it’s a shame. No matter. The point is, we’re hiring. Would you be available?”

“To do what, exactly?” Peter asks.

“To join our family,” says Buddy. 

Peter chuckles. “I haven’t got much experience with those,” he says. “In fact, I don’t remember the last time I had one.”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think you could handle it,” says Buddy. “Besides, it’s a crime family, so you’ve got at least half the experience already. You can learn the rest as you go along.”

Against his will, Peter’s mind flits back to Juno, his eye glowing in the soft light of that hotel room. He files it away.

“I suppose I’m available,” he says.

“Good,” says Buddy, standing with a grimace. “If you can provide me with a reference, you’re in. I’m already familiar with your resume.” She smiled. “Ransom, I think this is going to be the start of an exciting business endeavor for the both of us.”

Peter just smiles and tries not to think of Juno Steel.

  


* * *

  


“Pete,” Mag says, “I have a brilliant idea.”

Peter glances down at him. He is sixteen years old, and finally a bit taller than Mag, especially if he wears boots with a bit of a heel. “Hmm?”

“I finally have all the pieces,” Mag says. “It’s something your father talked about, back when we used to work together, and we can finally do it. I know exactly how.”

“You know exactly how to _what,_ Mag?” Peter asks.

“I know how to take down New Kinshasa.”

Peter startles. “I - what?”

“I know what to do. I have the perfect plan. Here, come with me to the kitchen, I’ll sketch something out for you.”

“Wha - Mag, wait a second, _what?_ ”

“Would you just look, Pete? If you take a look at these plans, you’ll see they’re exactly what we need.” He grabs his comms and pulls Peter into the kitchen by the wrist, then projects a set of blueprints into the air. “See?” he says, pointing to a glowing red dot. “That’s the reactor core. I know how to disable it. We could take all of their power in one fell swoop, and no one would be the wiser!”

Peter squints at the plans. “Are you sure?”

“I’m positive,” Mag responds. He grins up at Peter. “This is exactly what your dad and I worked for,” he said. “And it’s what you and I have been working towards your whole life. It’s incredible. We’ll finally be free. Everyone will finally be free. No more lasers, no more microchips, just free will.”

Peter glances around at the other plans, and then back at Mag. “Do you really think we can do it?”

Mag smiles and wraps an arm around Peter’s shoulders, then squeezes. “I really do,” he said.

Peter grins. “Well then,” he says, “I guess we’d better begin our preparations.”

  


* * *

  


“Does this really seem like the best time for this conversation?” Peter asks.

The line moves forward, and so does Peter. Juno follows a half-step behind, holding the skirt of his golden dress like it’s going to explode. “I… I mean, I guess not, but -”

“Excellent!” says Peter. The line moves forward again. Peter’s mouth moves too, mostly without his input. He says something callous and watches as Juno’s face falls, and it _hurts._

_Fold it away._

Juno complains about the brightness of his gown. Peter would, too, if he weren’t so entranced by the lady wearing it.

_Fold it away._

Juno trips, and Peter catches him on instinct. Juno smells faintly of artificial roses. It is enough to stop Peter’s heart. He helps Juno stand and does not allow his hands to linger on Juno’s waist.

_Fold it away._

Everything goes to hell as quickly as it always does when Juno’s around. Peter resents that Juno discovered Zolatovna’s haircut before he did, and that Juno manages to charm her so easily, and that Juno is the one who reacts to Zolatovna’s bid, and that Juno notices the hidden camera that Peter missed. Juno is consistently good, in a way that Peter has forgotten - not just morally, but good at his job, good at noticing the smallest possible details, good at charming the pants off of his marks. Peter does not want to be falling for Juno again.

Peter is falling for Juno again.

They begin to dance. The soft light of the dance floor makes Juno’s golden highlighter sparkle. His hands are warm in Peter’s. Juno says “Dip me,” and Peter does, giving Juno ample time to case the room for an opening to steal the globe. As he does, Juno’s lips part just enough that Peter can imagine a huff of warm air against his neck, his cheek, the way Juno’s hands held his forearms so firmly that Peter felt like he’d never have to float away again - 

“Whoa, yeah, she’s staring holes through you, isn’t she?” he says. Peter pulls him back up.

“Only through my clothing, I believe, but it does make stealth more difficult. Spin.”

The golden fabric of Juno’s dress fans out around him as he goes. He is breathtaking, and Peter is utterly enchanted yet again. Peter spells out the plan, and Juno smiles, and Peter holds his breath because it is the loveliest thing he has ever seen.

_Oh,_ he thinks. _Oh, I’d forgotten what it was to feel like this._

And then Peter turns to face Nova Zolatovna, who has been staring at him all night. A very large part of him does not want to talk to her at all, because he hates doing what other people want him to do, but he has a job to do and he’s going to do it. He makes his way over to her, and her face lights up.

“Hello, handsome. I was wondering when I’d finally get to talk to you.”

Peter swallows his discomfort and uses it to honey-coat his words. “Ah, Ms. Zolatovna! It’s truly a delight to meet you at last.”

There’s hunger in her eyes when she says “I have just one request of you, one _tiny_ thing.” She leans close, and Peter notices the silver mascara on her eyelashes. “ _Kiss me._ ”

He tries to laugh it off, to deflect, to resist the pull of her command. “Beg pardon?” He even tries to give himself an escape: “My other half told me that you had quite the sense of humor, but I -”

“Oh, _damn_ your other half and kiss me!” says Zolatovna, pouting like a child. As she rambles about star-sent lovers and schoolyard crushes, Peter’s heart sinks. If he were smarter, he would take her offer. It may not be the kind of freedom he’s used to, but it’s money - money that he could use to start over, to get this damn _thing_ out of his head, to escape the obedience that has shackled him for his entire life to the place - the _past_ \- he has spent decades trying to outrun. 

“I’ll give you anything you want, dumplin’,” says Zolatovna. “I’ll give you Saturn on a string of pearls. Just _kiss me._ ”

And then Peter thinks of Juno - of that beautiful, flickering smile, of that golden dress and of his stained coat, of torture chairs and Martian tombs and a lady who has returned from the depths of despair to be here, now, at this stupid party with Peter, who has spent the entire evening being stunningly competent and achingly genuine and funnier than Peter can barely believe, whose smile is full of hope and uncertainty and a beauty that Peter wants to see every day for the rest of his life. Juno makes him feel - well, a hell of a lot, if he’s being honest, and it has hurt for _so long,_ and now all Peter wants to do is to be held by those warm, strong arms and stay.

So he leans in close and kisses Zolatovna on the cheek. She giggles. “Oh, Mr. Dauphin”

“Oh, Ms. Zolatovna,” says Peter. “My radiance, my beauty, my jewel-in-orbit. You have read me to the quick of my soul and seen the longing that lies within, because it is you, Nova, and it was always you, from the moment our eyes first met.”

Zolatovna’s face lights up. “Oh, I knew it, I knew it!”

Peter takes a step back and presses his hands to his heart. “But I _cannot_ be with you!”

Zolatovna frowns. “Wait, what?”

“Not yet, my love,” Peter assures her. “Not yet. Our love, it’s… _forbidden._ ”

He spins a tale of danger that is, on its face, completely ridiculous, and Nova eats it up. She forces him to swear that he’ll come back to her - and oh, does he _sweeeear_ it - and then she pulls him close.

“I know exactly what you need to do, honey,” she says.

“Oh?” asks Peter.

“Tonight,” she said, “you go to his room. You take this,” she says, pressing something long and slender into his hand, “and you use it on him. Hide it in your pockets for now. When the time comes, you strike! Then you can come back to me without him stopping you. Isn’t it just brilliant?”

Peter glances down. In his hand is a silver dagger, just sharp enough to cause injury but inlaid with so many jewels that he suspects it has never been used. He feels the blood drain from his face as the microchip tugs on him, registering her command. He stammers. 

“Surely - Ms. Zolatovna, I can’t -”

“Oh, yes you can, honey. Ooh, even better - stab him right in the heart! Oh, it’ll be so romantic. Then we’ll run away together.” She winks. “I can’t wait, honey! Now, go back to him! Don’t tell him anything, though - he’ll just ruin our romance. Oh, Mr. Dauphin... I’ll see you soon, darling!”

She doesn’t notice the way Peter’s hands shake, or the fact that he can no longer form a complete sentence. She doesn’t see how Peter blows past Juno without a word, leaving him stammering for Peter to wait up. He catches up by the time Peter is in the hallway and places a gentle hand on the crook of Peter’s elbow.

“You okay?” he mutters. “What happened?”

Peter’s throat closes up. He glances down at Juno, who searches Peter’s face for something before nodding resolutely. “I’m calling Buddy,” he says.

Peter just nods, his mind too numb to say anything, much less to try and resist Zolatovna’s order long enough to explain what has happened. He tries, desperately, to think of a way out - can he allow himself to be captured by Zolatovna’s guards so that he cannot be left alone with Juno? Can he ask Buddy to lock him up somewhere on the ship? Can he steal the RUBY-7 and get far enough away before he has a chance to end up in Juno’s bedroom?

Jet arrives soon enough with the RUBY-7. He and Juno clamber into the backseat, keeping an eye out for any errant guards Zolatovna may have sent after them. Peter feels the weight of the dagger in his coat pocket like an anchor, like a gravestone, and he tries not to scream. Juno keeps eyeing him like he can tell that something is wrong, and Peter wishes that, for once, he could open up, that he could tell Juno every awful thing running through his head, but he _can't,_ so he just sits quietly and tries to think. 

When they arrive at the ship, Peter climbs out of the backseat, body full of lead. Juno leans closer to him as Jet walks away.

“Listen, Nureyev,” he says, “can we talk? Please?”

Peter shakes his head frantically. “I’m sorry, Juno,” he says, his heart pounding, “but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Juno’s face falls. “Okay,” he says. “I’m not going to push you. Just… I’m here if you want to, okay?”

Peter nods. “I know.”

Juno gives him a sad smile, then turns to walk away. Peter watches him hike up his skirt and go, cursing about damn six-inch heels and Buddy wanting to put on a show. He almost laughs, but it comes out more like a sob.

  


* * *

  


The reactor room is bathed in red light. That same red light will haunt Peter Nureyev’s dreams for the rest of his life, though he doesn’t know it yet. He holds the reactor core with trembling fingers, processing the words as the computer spoke them.

“Warning: Levitation Reactor disengaged. New Kinshasa will fall in approximately ten minutes.”

“Let’s go!” Mag shouts. 

Peter takes an uncertain step forward, then freezes. “What did that just say?”

“Our death sentence, if we don’t leave now!”

Peter stares at the empty place where the core is supposed to sit as the computer shouts at them to evacuate. He stands his ground, resisting the command even as it thrums through his veins like poison.

“New Kinshasa is going to fall? Crash into Brahma, with all of these people on it?”

Mag huffs. “That was always the plan, Pete!”

Peter’s voice rises in fury and desperation. “You said we were going to stop the weapon!”

“I said we were going to take down New Kinshasa!”

“I didn’t think you meant literally!”

The computer spits out something about the levitation power falling to ninety-five percent. Peter’s head reels.

“What’s gotten into you today, Pete?”

Peter gestures to the room around him. “I’m home for the first time! I could have family here! You can’t just take it away from me after one day, there has to be another way -”

And then Mag explains that he has been lying for Peter’s entire life, and Peter falters, panics, desperate for something to grab onto -

“And you’re certain there’s no other way for us to do this, then?”

“Absolutely.”

Mag’s eyes are cold. Peter has seen Mag angry, has seen him furious, raging against New Kinshasa and their lasers and microchips and the way that they allow people, good people, innocent people, to die every day with their apathy. He has seen Mag heartbroken at corpses on the street, children who didn’t know where to get food and adults who became desperate enough to brave laser fire to find a mouthful of bread. He has watched Mag laugh, has watched him cry, has watched him pace the length of a hundred apartments trying to come up with a plan, and Peter wants so badly to agree with him now, but he just can’t.

“We can’t do this,” he says. “Even if it isn’t my home, it’s someone’s, and I won’t destroy it. I’m putting the reactor back.”

As he turns to do so, Mag’s voice echoes from behind him, resigned and exhausted.

“Don’t put the reactor back, Pete. Come with me.”

The command pulls at Peter’s mind.

  


* * *

  


He gathers his things methodically. It only takes a few minutes; why burden himself with clothing and jewelry, if he can simply steal what he needs later?

The ship is curiously silent. Peter supposes that everyone wants to relax after a mission that stressful. He tiptoes toward the hangar where they keep the cars, slinging his bag along behind him and begging the universe not to let anyone see him.

Of course, the universe doesn’t care.

Buddy is leaning against the door of the RUBY-7 when Peter arrives at the hangar. “Hello, Pete,” she says, and he almost flinches at the nickname.

“Buddy,” he says. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I’d be rather surprised if you had,” she says. “Where are you going?”

Peter tightens his grip on the strap of his bag. “I’ve run into some trouble,” he says. “I was hoping to resolve it before it became a problem for everyone else.”

“You could always ask us for help, you know.”

She is holding the keys to the RUBY-7. Belatedly, Peter realizes that he hasn’t changed since the mission; the dagger is still in his pocket, as are the dozens of knives he usually keeps on his person. He could kill Buddy right now and keep Juno safe. He could be systems away before anyone noticed he was missing. He would have blood on his hands, yes, but it would hardly be the first time.

“Pete,” she says, “I know what you’re thinking.”

  


* * *

  


“I know what you’re thinking, Pete,” says Mag. “And I’m sorry. I truly am. I didn’t want to have to order you like this.”

“Then take it back,” Peter says through gritted teeth. 

“We don’t have time for this!” Mag shouts. “Every second we stay is another second closer to our deaths. I’m sorry, but we have to go.”

“No,” says Peter, but his voice is distant. He stares down at the core in his hands. Inside of him, the command swells, compelling him to run.

He stands his ground.

  


* * *

  


“Just talk to him,” says Buddy, “before you go. I think you owe Juno that much, hmm?”

The walk to Juno’s room is silent. The dagger sits heavy in Peter’s pocket. Juno looks surprised when he opens the door, like he truly didn’t expect Peter to come in.

“Uh, hey,” he says. “I don’t… uh, what should I call you?”

Peter almost cries. “Just… call me what you’ve always called me, Juno.”

“Okay. So, uh, Nureyev, did you want to talk?”

“I’m sorry, Juno,” he says, and Juno smiles sadly.

“For what?”

“For being cold to you, earlier, and… oh, I don’t know. For making a mess of things.”

Juno has taken off his makeup and dress and is wearing a comically large tee shirt that says “Boss Ass Bitch” in pink sparkly font. There’s a stain on his pajama pants, just above the knee, that looks like it might be coffee. He smells like soap, but the kind that’s supposed to have no scent and just barely manages to smell like baby powder. His expression is more open than Peter has ever seen it.

“It’s okay, Nureyev. And hey, I’m sorry, too. The last time we saw each other, that night... I messed up. I don’t know if that hurt, or how much it hurt, but that doesn’t matter - I shouldn’t’ve just walked out. And…”

Peter sits quietly as Juno apologizes, his hands trembling from the effort it takes to not remove the dagger from his pocket and plunge it into Juno’s heart. Juno plays with a loose thread in his duvet, and it takes everything Peter has not to grab those wandering fingers and kiss them, one by one.

_I need to go,_ Peter thinks. _I need to go._

  


* * *

  


“Pete, we need to go.”

“I said I’m not leaving!”

Peter pulls a plasma knife from his pocket. Mag stares at him, incredulous.

“Really, Pete? You’d pull a knife on me?”

Peter’s hands shake. “Take back your command.”

“The man who pulled you off the streets! Who raised you!”

“Take it back, _now!_ ”

Mag shakes his head. “I won’t. I stand for something, Pete. I thought you were the same.” He turns to leave.

“Don’t walk away from me! I’ll do it! I swear I will!”

Mag shakes his head and takes a step toward the door. "Here's something else I stand for," he says. "I won't draw a knife on my family."

  


* * *

  


“I just wanted to know… can you forgive me?”

“Oh, Juno,” says Peter. There are tears in his eyes. His hand goes to his pocket. The handle of the dagger is cool to the touch, just like the metal of the door that separated him from Juno in that Martian tomb. "Of course I forgive you," he whispers. "We're family."

Juno’s crying, too. “Hey,” he says, and he wraps his arms around Peter.

  


* * *

  


Mag takes another step.

Behind his back, Peter raises his knife.

  


* * *

  


Juno holds Peter close.

Behind his back, Peter raises his knife.

  


* * *

  


Peter has stabbed people before. He knows the sound a plasma knife makes as it plunges down into someone’s back, as it twists into their heart. It sounds different when it’s Mag.

“Peter,” Mag says. It sounds like he’s struggling to breathe.

“Mag,” says Peter, “oh, Mag,” and he lowers Mag to the floor.

“Oh, my boy…”

Peter holds Mag close. “Let me out of it, Mag,” he says. “Please, _please,_ take it back.”

But Mag isn’t breathing anymore.

  


* * *

  


The knife hovers above Juno’s perfect shoulders, in Peter’s trembling hand, and he hurts.

A thousand orders echo in his mind, from the mundane to the horrible: “Get out of here,” and “Stay down,” and “Run,” and “Touch your nose, Pete,” and “Quick! Go through that door!” and “Come with me,” and “Stab him right in the heart,” and it hurts, but he keeps his hand raised for just a second longer, and then another second, because he can feel Juno’s heart beating against his own and the thought of losing that is the worst thing he can possibly imagine.

There is blood on his hands. Peter has killed before, has even killed someone he loves before, and has killed a hundred more just for getting in the way of a locked vault or a computer terminal. He would have killed everyone on Mars to keep Juno safe.

He thinks, absently, that maybe that’s how Mag felt about destroying New Kinshasa, and he thinks he can understand.

But it’s Juno. He cannot kill Juno. He _will not_ kill Juno.

“I won’t” he whispers, tears streaming down his face. “ _I won’t._ ”

He drops the knife.

  


* * *

  


New Kinshasa still hangs in the skies above Brahma because of one very lucky guard.

“Drop that!” they said, and that was all Peter needed to let the core fall and to make his escape. It freed him from Mag’s order for just long enough to run, the same way he had always run to avoid commands, and he kept running until he outran Brahma, and his name, and his past. He kept running until he ran into a detective named Juno Steel, who was trying to climb out of a window in order to keep working alone.

And _oh,_ Peter understood.

So, when Peter writes his name on a piece of paper and stuffs it between the cushions of Juno’s couch, it is all thanks to that very lucky guard and to Mag, who taught Peter to run away before anyone asked. And Peter freeing himself from obedience is all thanks to Juno, who taught Peter how to stay.

At least, that’s what Peter would say, if anyone asked him.

  


* * *

  


The dagger clatters against the floor. Juno startles and pulls away.

“I won’t,” says Peter. “I won’t do it. I won’t kill him.”

Juno frowns. “Uh, what?”

There is no pull from Zolatovna’s orders. There is no weight around Peter’s mind. He laughs. “I won’t kill you, Juno. I refuse. I’m saying no!”

Juno picks up the dagger. “Holy shit,” he says. “Nureyev, were you about to _stab me?_ ”

“Tell me to do something,” says Peter.

“What?”

“Anything. Anything at all. Tell me to touch my nose.”

Juno stares at him. “Are you feeling okay?”

Peter stands, paces around the room once, trying not to let the laughter bubble out of him. “Just do it, Juno. Please. I need to know.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Uh, touch your nose.”

“No,” says Peter, and then he laughs again. “No, I won’t.”

“But you just said -”

Peter rushes back to Juno’s side and pulls him into an embrace. “I won’t do it! I will not touch my nose, Juno, not if you tell me to do it a thousand times.”

Juno pauses. “I’m confused,” he says, but he wraps his arms around Peter’s waist anyway.

So Peter explains. He tells Juno about the microchip, and Mag, and the obedience, and Juno has the decency to be completely morally outraged, which makes Peter want to kiss him. Before he can ask, Juno requests to feel the mostly-gone scar, which Peter allows.

“I think Vespa and Rita could probably get it out,” Juno says, once feeling the scar has turned into running his hands through Peter’s hair. “I mean, in case it starts working again, or in case someone tries to hack into it.”

Peter shivers at the thought. “That’s probably a good idea,” he says. He closes his eyes and lets Juno continue working his fingers through Peter’s hair. 

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” says Juno, after a couple of minutes. “Like, thinking you had to kill me, and not being able to tell me.”

Peter opens his eyes. “I’m just glad it’s over,” he says. 

“Do you want to go talk to Vespa now?”

Peter shakes his head. “I think…” He laughs, a little soft and a little scared. “I think I honestly just want to go to sleep.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” says Juno. He pauses, then meets Peter’s eye. “D’you wanna stay?”

“What?”

Juno blushes. “I don’t know, I just thought maybe you’d want to stay the night. Not, like, to have sex,” he clarifies, his blush growing even redder. “Just to stay. And not if you don’t want to, obviously.”

Peter smiles. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I’d like that very much, Juno.”

“Oh,” says Juno. “Uh, I don’t have any pajamas for you.”

Peter leans forward and kisses Juno on the cheek. “I’ll be right back, then,” he says. Juno stutters something incomprehensible as Peter gets up and goes to his room to change.

The ship is quiet at night. Peter takes a moment to think of Mag - of the many, many ways in which Mag kept him alive, and of the ways in which Peter failed to do the same for him - and then changes into his most comfortable silk nightgown. He creeps down the hall to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face and gather his thoughts, to think about the fact that he’s finally, _finally_ free. It doesn’t feel real, so he looks at himself in the mirror - at his dark hair, speckled silver at the roots, and his dark eyes, and his sharp teeth, and a small scar at his hairline - and thinks _It’s over. I won._

Then he creeps back down the hall to Juno’s room, where Juno has buried himself in his blankets. Peter turns off the light and climbs into bed behind Juno. He scoots just close enough to touch and then stops, waiting for permission.

Juno turns. In the darkness, his eyes look like black holes. He moves closer to Peter, snuggling up against his chest.

“Is this okay?” he whispers.

Peter nods. It feels like something is lodged in his throat; it feels like he has swallowed a star. Juno’s arms are warm where they wrap around his waist.

“I’m so glad I know you,” Juno says. “Thank you for listening to me. Thank you for letting me apologize.”

Peter kisses the top of his forehead. What he means to say is “Thank you for letting me stay,” but what comes out is “I love you.”

Juno laughs and buries his face a little deeper in Peter’s chest. “I love you too,” he says. “God damn, that’s terrifying.”

“It is,” says Peter. “I don’t know how I can stand it.”

“I don’t know,” says Juno. “It’s pretty great, too.” He snorts. “How does that work? Terrifying and fun. Jeez, it’s like one of Rita’s streams.”

“I believe it’s been compared to a roller coaster in several famous songs,” said Peter. “Also, being hit by lightning.”

“Well, here’s hoping it’s a bit less deadly than that.”

“Quite.”

They lie there in silence for a moment before Juno pulls his face away from Peter’s chest. “Hey, Nureyev?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I kiss you?”

His voice is so raw and earnest that it nearly breaks Peter’s heart all over again. “Yes,” he whispers, his heart frozen in his chest. Juno’s breath smells vaguely of peppermint. The smell is overwhelming.

Juno’s lips are chapped when they meet Peter’s, but they’re warm. It’s a chaste kiss, all things considered; when Juno pulls away, Peter makes a small, desperate noise, and Juno huffs out a laugh.

“In the morning,” says Juno, “we can do whatever you want. Cross my heart. Right now, though, my legs are _killing_ me from those heels, and I kind of just want to sleep until noon.”

Peter kisses Juno again, quickly, then tucks Juno’s head back against his chest. He yawns. “That’s good, Juno, because I think I’d like to sleep for the next several days. Perhaps even longer. I think I’ll need the energy to outrun Ms. Zolatovna’s attention for the next several years.”

“Oh, please, she’ll have forgotten both of us by breakfast,” says Juno. He kisses Peter’s chest. “Good night, Nureyev.”

“Good night, Juno.”

Juno falls asleep within minutes. Peter listens to him breathing, feels Juno’s heartbeat against his chest, and reminds himself that Juno is safe. That he is safe. That their whole family is safe onboard the _Carte Blanche,_ and that tomorrow they will all be safe again, and that every day for the rest of his life is a day where he will be able to choose, minute by minute, what he will do. He drifts off with Juno still holding him tight, his strong arms an anchor, keeping Peter from floating out into the void of space, and he knows those arms will still be there when he wakes up.

So he stays.


End file.
